Weariness.

One.

Word.

Paragraphs.

For class last night, went to see a writer named Lydia Something-or-other read some of her work. She wasn't as bad as I'd feared she'd be. While I was there, I briefly saw a girl I know named Sarah. Then I noticed Ha in the corner--I walked over, and sat next to Ha, so I had the floor.

I think the sight of me guilted Ha into reading my novel finally which led to late night e-mail exchanges the gist of which were that Ha doesn't think I'm a very good writer. Which could mean a number of things, certainly one of which is that I am in fact not a very good writer and that I therefore have a great deal of misplaced confidence in myself. Which is actually a hard pill to swallow after spending so many years on something.

Hmph. Guess I'll keep on truckin'. It's not like I have anything better to do and I sorta think being in the dark about yourself is a big part of life. Yay.

Yesterday, I also finished my latest in my series of pictures of girls I know wearing Slave Leia clothes. This one's of Trisa and she seems to feel it's a good likeness.

Shall I draw more often? Write less? Comic books . . . I suppose that's the avenue I was really meant to explore. I feel like a little dragon who's constantly getting his tail burnt off.

Well. This'll probably be the last post from me for a couple days. Trisa and I are going to Coachella for the weekend. That is, if nothing horrendous and unexpected happens . . .


"I'm happy, hope you're happy too." -David Bowie

Altoids don't seem to freshen my breath. In fact, they seem to make it worse.

More performing for school last night. I was a wise-cracking, sexist old man, a snide radio drama villain, an annoying stagehand, and a secretly gay man named Charles. I feel limber.

Now it's one of those damned Thursdays . . .

Once again, I find myself in a hurry. Such is the life of one who sleeps during the day and is over-active at night.

Those of you who've wanted to see a Nebari beat up a Klingon may wish to check out my newest pin-up for Nebari.net.

I've eaten too much this morning . . .

Well, I guess I got a lot of attention yesterday.

Maybe it started at the mall where some people were staring at me for no apparent reason. It certainly was in full swing by class-time.

I'd submitted a short story to Acorn Review and, in the Acorn Review class last night, it was discussed. Pieces are all submitted anonymously so I had a nice vantage point to hear unrestrained comments about my story. Ha (who was suspiciously absent last night) had predicted that no-one would like my story as she felt it was similer to a series of stories from last semester that everyone, myself included, had hated. I must disagree that my story was at all similer because the other stories were boring, pointless, and sexist.

In any case, a number of people in class did actually enjoy it, and I'm happy to say these people were mostly very cute girls. Many people felt sure the story had been written by a young woman who was viciously angry at her ex-boyfriend. A couple agreed it was surreal, held one's interest, and was disturbing. The only real complaints I heard was that it had no sympathetic characters and that it was confusing--even after several other classmembers had clearly and accurately described the basic story from having read it. But maybe it was those complaints by themselves that led to only six people voting "yes" on the story and thirteen voting "no." Of course, I don't know because no-one else who voted "no" actually spoke up. So much for useful feedback.

As I was leaving (I had to leave early), I accidentally knocked over my chair. Having gotten the attention of everyone in the class, I announced that I had written the story and that I would answer any questions. I was asked what it was about and I told them; "It's about a girl who picks up an older man in the mall, and she ends up tearing him apart in the bathroom." Which was exactly what several people said it was obviously about.

I was vaguely happy to hear some girls crying out, "Yes!" as I was leaving.

And where was I going? A fellow named Robert, who, I think, is a very talented writer, had asked me to read a part in his play. It was a pretty medium sized role, and I had plenty of big lines. When I arrived at the art gallery where the play was to be read, I was informed that the acquostics were bad and that I had better shout as much as possible. So I did.

So I spent the rest of the evening screaming lines like, "Man? Man?? I am no man . . . but a god!" to a group of teachers, parents, girlfriends and wives in a small art gallery filled with delicate ceramics.

Then I went home and cried while watching William Wyler's The Children's Hour. I started out bitterly knowing there would be no make-out scene between Audrey Hepburn and Shirley Maclaine. But it was a great movie anyway. Or horrible. Or both. Devastating. It was certainly bold to be, in the end, such a clear avocater for homosexuality in 1961. Ah, stories like that always get me, what can I say?

No entry yesterday. Why? I could tell you, but I fear for the resulting damage to the fabric of InterConscious.

Hung out with Trisa yesterday--we saw Kill Bill vol 2--second time for me and I found I liked it even more. Before that, Trisa gave me a birthday present--the entire Neverwhere television series. I was very happy to receive it but I enjoyed the first couple episodes a lot more than I thought I would.

Also watched The Band Wagon, which was mostly disappointing. The credits at the beginning had gotten my hopes up; starring Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse, directed by Arthur Freed and Vincent Minnelli. But it ended up being a misguided attempt at infusing more modern sensibilities with the old musical about a misguided attempt at infusing more modern sensibilities with the old musical. But it did have some nice dance numbers--it's impossible, really, for Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse to not have good dance numbers together.

The ending segment was an attempt to do a film noir dance scene, which mostly didn't work, but at one moment piqued my interest when Astaire had a dance/fight scene. And I was reminded of how Roger Ebert refers to Jackie Chan as a modern Fred Astaire. I think the audience's current interest in acrobatic fights scenes in movies like Kill Bill and Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon could be a way of fulfilling the need they once had for elaborate and astounding dance sequences. I think Fred Astaire would have made a great action star.

Meanwhile, Poppy Z. Brite seems to feel exactly as I did about Mark Romanick's One Hour Photo (minor spoilers if you follow the link). Although I would have mentioned the misuse of the Neon Genesis Evangelion action figure.

Watched Andrei Tarkovsky's The Mirror, which was very good. I really liked the scene where the woman's letting her hair drip down in front of her and the whole house around her starts dripping apart. Probably one of the greatest moments in film history.

The influences of Cocteau and Bergman were pretty evident and I'm pretty sure there's some Kubrick influence too, although Tarkovsky apparently hated Kubrick.

It's been ages since I watched The Seventh Seal, come to think . . .

Well, I'm off to go do this and a bit of that. Wish me luck.

I'm hungry.

And there're a number of things to do and think about.

Yup air . . .

Last night I watched Blossoms in the Dust. A movie flawed in a lot of ways. But I found it interesting that the opposition to Edna Gladys's (Greer Garson) proposal that the word "illegitimate" be removed from all birth certificates sounded precisely like the opposition to gay marriage to-day. They argued that if children were not recognised as illegitimate then it was cause terrible damage to the sanctity of the family and so forth. Really, it was very strange. Taking out a few lines relating specifically to the illegitimacy issue, much of the move's audio could be played to-day in Congress or the Supreme Court and not seem at all out of place. Hopefully this is a sign that opposition to gay marriage might one day seem as archaic as parents' opposition to their children marrying orphens.

Me? I oppose Thursdays.

Watched Singin' in the Rain last night. It'd been a long time since I'd seen it and I found it far more enjoyable now--even though I'd loved it the first time. I remember that my favourite scene used to be the "Moses Supposes His Toeses are Roses" scene. Now I think I most like Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse's love dance with the big, billowing sheet. Debbie Reynolds had a good voice and I can see why Hunter S. Thompson would kneel before her alter. It's weird to think I saw her on The Daily Show recently.

Of course the "Singin' in the Rain" scene was really good, and somehow seemed more infectiously cheery after A Clockwork Orange, at least to me.

Speaking of which, I learned a few nights ago that my dad, a firefighter, actually stayed at Malcom McDowell's house for a few days. There was some kind of a tar pit in the actor's yard that was threatening to ignite or something so there had to be firemen standing by. My dad said McDowell made very strong coffee.

In a hurry again. I was unbelievably busy yesterday and to-day's schedule is only slightly less tight.

Last night the Acorn Review accepted a story about a man who sees his wife after she's dead and has a cathartic conversation with her. Why do so many people like shit? Why, oh, why?

I'm sitting on the floor right now, reaching up to the gentle computer, for it is my master. Oh, what a harsh master she is, too. Did I say she? Yes, she is not my master but my mistress.

Oh . . .

I won't tell you about last night's dream.

Had diner--er, dinner--with Trisa last night. At City Delicatessan where the propriety was bemused by an argument we were having. It was an argument that I'm still confused about, but a good-natured argument at least.

I've been to Submarina to-day. I like sandwiches.

Weather's not as nice to-day as it was yesterday . . .

Had an argument with Cryptess last night, too. I seem to be in a lot of arguments. She felt I ought not to use the word "shall" in my novel. She said the world would not accept it. I say; to hell with the world. Shall's a real and good word and I shall use it!

Yesterday was all Kill Bill-ish.

After seeing Kill Bill vol. 2, I came back here and watched vol. 1 with my aunt.

Vol. 2 feels very much like the second half of a film and is different from Vol. 1 in that way. There's less action and a lot more character development and dialogue.

Vol. 1 is still great. I have a suspicion that, like Pirates of the Carribean, it'll be the movie that everyone buys.

I've been feeling peculiarly tired.

I dreamt last night that I was walking on the freeway, that I'd made up my mind to walk to L.A. so that I could get more exercise. When firetrucks came by, I had to walk over to the shoulder. It became very hot and dry. So I decided to run back. As I did so, I noticed beautiful green forest on either side of the freeway.

I hate Jackie Cooper. Have I mentioned that?

I wish I had some water . . . All I've got is a very old bottle of it I found in my backpack.

Class was interesting last night. It seems I'm cast in a number of people's plays. Should be fun. Or something like that.

Now . . . for adventure . . . !

Yes, I know you're Thursday, and, yes, I know that means I have to go but I'm making a fucking blog entry so leave me alone for a minute, okay? Jeez . . .

I hate when I buy a CD I hate. Especially when it was one that I thought was gonna be good. Gods, it makes me angry. I won't tell you who it is but I had to go to Tower to find his music and he did a lousy cover of a Tori Amos song I really like (I guess I really like all Tori Amos songs). I don't think I can return it, so I guess it's to MusicTrader with me . . .

In Clairemont yesterday, as I was getting out of my car, an obasan, an old woman, walked up to me and explained that I looked like I could be someone famous, that she needed long dark hair (she had thinning white hair), that she needed a certain balding 45 year-old man to fall in love with her. Apparently this man was dating her daughter but was too old for the daughter and too young for the obasan. When he was getting out of bed at a hotel the obasan used to work at, he asked her what it was like to grow old and lose one's hair. She wished she had said to him, "You tell me." At this point in her narrative, she noticed a few police cars in the parking lot with us, said something about how cops were both good things and bad things, that they were never around when you needed them, and then she left.

So I went to Subway sandwich and when I asked the woman there for my usual sandwich, she began making a burrito. Brains don't work properly in Clairemont. Maybe because they have a Krispy Kreme. It's softened them.

I'm needing to get out just now.

Printed up my novel. Had to get a new ink cartridge after page 335 but the deed is done and now I've a big brick of wood in my closet.

Stage Gamma complete.

I'm hungry . . .

Gods I'm sleepy.

Hardly paid attention to anything in class last night except Ha. It was all the same stuff we did on the previous class, only now the teacher was there, so I could get away with it.

I dreamt last night that I was in a class that was supposed to go and see a play and we were supposed to give our money to the teacher so he could buy tickets. For some reason, the teacher decided to buy cloaks for everyone instead. There were purple cloaks, grey cloaks, black coats, leather cloaks . . .

Found this one on Mel's journal . . .


Which Legendary Actress are you?

Watched Holliday Inn last night. My favourite part was Fred Astaire stumbling into a New Years party terribly drunk. Staggering to the middle of the room he immediately, of course, begins dancing brilliantly. Then he passes out and can't even remember the evening.

Gots to give props to Irving Berlin for writing a song about George Washington's birthday. Not something I generally feel the urge to sing about, personally.

The Lincoln's Birthday segment was sort of racist I guess. It featured Bing Crosby and Marjorie Reynolds singing with black face. Although they were singing about how great it was that Abraham Lincoln had freed the slaves. There was even a part where an actual black woman (yup, the real thing) sang to her children about Lincoln. So, while racist, it seems it genuinely didn't mean to be. These folks simply did not realise there was anything insulting about painting their faces in that manner. Ah, innocence.

Well, to-day's my birthday. Which I guess makes me Christ or, more accurately, a rabbit.

So far, unexpectedly, the most impressive birthday present has come from Tim who got me the entire first two seasons of Ranma 1/2 on DVD. Otherwise I've gotten money, which is very, very good to have.

I did post yesterday, by the way. It's not my fault it didn't appear until 4am.

And now I must go. I think I've already slept through many of the Easter things I was supposed to attend. For some reason, I chose to stay up until the wee hours editing my novel. But I've finished--as in, I've seen all I can see for now. Now to find people who're actually willing to read it . . . I'm betting I'll need some of this birthday money for printer ink cartridges.

Oh, Popeye . . .

Suddenly I'm in the mood for spinach.

I'm gonna see if I can do my taxes to-day and maybe see if I can get Yojimbo involved.

Boy, I'm tired.

After dinner at the Olive Garden courtesy of my parents for my birthday, Trisa and I watched Annie Hall. Which was fun. Then I went to Tim's where I ranted about the shoddy DVD release of The Last Unicorn. And he managed to quickly find a region free, widescreen version on Ebay--unfortunately there was only one and it was being coveted by others . . .

So close . . .

Watching a gorgeous girl figure skating right now. Why isn't there nude figure-skating? Two people seperately suggested I was a pervert yesterday. I am.

Watched Ninotchka last night. It was nice. I wish Bela Legosi had been given more screen time. Greta Garbo was good in a distant sort of way. She sort of looked like Aimee Mann.

I am angry! The Last Unicorn has been released on DVD--but only in pan and scan! Grruah! Those fucking bastards at Artisan and/or Family Entertainment! And I was looking forward to seeing that movie in widescreen--I don't think I ever have seen it in widescreen. Now I wonder if I ever will--guah, those dicks! In this day and age! When I thought people were maturing past pan and scan! This is really just . . . unacceptable.

Watched part of a five hour documentary about MGM yesterday, hosted by Patrick Stewart with a grand exuberance that few men could have pulled off. But Patrick Stewart kicks ass, so he did it.

The documentary showed a clip from the mid-twenties version of Ben-Hur, which I'd very much like to see one day if only because of the excessively lavish production value and the colour scenes with beautiful naked woman happily parading down a street, throwing flowers.

I learned last night that, in the twenties, before she went to Hollywood, Joan Crawford appeared in some porno films. Of course, once she was under contract, studio reps quietly bought and destroyed all of the naughty films. Oh, bloody hell la gods frell-ka! What I would not give to see those films! I've found a new hope . . . A hope that somehow, somewhere at least one copy of those things still exists.

For those interested, I've done another chapter of The Adventures of Nar'eth. It's up at Nebari.Net.

And now Thursday's said I can't sleep in or hang around or even shave. I have to go . . .

New page of Doll Merchant.

What else can I tell ya? I'm trying the cinnemon mints from Starbucks. They're good, but tiny. Actually I think I've tried them before, first time I was in Seattle to visit Cryptess.

Almost finished an editing pass of my novel . . . 'spose I'll go off and do that now.

Was bewitched last night by Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West, an over-three hour film that did not remotely feel like an over-three hour film. It featured an almost sensual use of close-ups, angles, and spacial arrangements lingering onscreen for often quite a while, but no longer than feels right. It felt genuinely right to linger on Charles Bronson's motionless, slightly smiling visage or Henry Fonda's vast vocabulary of squints.

This all served to weight basically simple characters and a basically simple plot about men living for death in a world of dry heat violent lawlessness. It was beautiful.

Now I must leave . . .

Good morning, everyone.

I was sleepy with headache all day yesterday. Starting to feel a little more clear-headed to-day . . .

Had me some nice grapefruit soda from Starbucks. And I don't think I've any more facts . . .

Much movie watching yesterday. First, I went with Trisa to see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, in which Kate Winslet looked terribly gorgeous. The relationships between peoples were rather realistic and enabled the movie to do what Science Fiction movies are supposed to do; make you contemplate strange possibilities about your world and how they would effect things.

Then we went to Trisa's place and we watched Buffalo 66, in which Christina Ricci was terribly gorgeous. After the the Brown Bunny debacle, I had thought Vincent Gallo was kind of a scumbag. Now I think he's kind of pathetic. It's hard to hate someone who's made such an embarrassingly self-indulgent film about how he's never gotten love and he needs love. You have to wonder how he can take himself seriously when he's written a scene specifically to have another man in the restroom observe how huge his penis is. And yet he does take himself profoundly seriously.

After this, it was my turn to bring in a movie and we watched The Apartment, in which Shirley Maclaine was terribly gorgeous.

No time at the moment.

Hellboy was amazing. Cthulhu looked great. And I watched four great episodes of Slayers . . .

Okay! Doll Merchant is back! And with a snazzy new format.

Watched Annie Hall last night. Egad, what a brillant movie. Woody Allen skillfully exploits the human thought process for silliness and great fun. Definitely one of the most believable and entertaining relationships between some of the most believable and entertaining characters I've ever seen in any work of fiction. Diane Keaton comes off as naturally nervous and nerdy, conveying all sorts of things at every half-second. And her clothes are great. It ends up being a meditation on relationships in general and makes some truly keen observations that make you sort of want to swoon.

And now to-day, I think I'll go and see Hellboy, which I think shall turn out to be a slightly different experience. I'm the only person I know who wants to see this movie and I'm not even entirely sure why I want to see it. I've never read the comic books, although I've heard them spoken well of. Dunno. Maybe it's just Ron Perlman seems so perfect in that role and I thought he looked a little like Tom Waits in City of Lost Children and I know there's a Tom Waits song used in Hellboy. Maybe it's 'cause John Hurt's in it. Maybe it's Selma Blair. We'll see, we'll see . . .

Had coffee with Trisa yesterday. Her shirt was deceptive.

Damn you, Syme!

I started watching the 1934 version of Treasure Island last night but couldn't finish it because Jackie Cooper is too fucking annoying. It angers me--I was really looking forward to that movie.